Interviewer: What if anything would you like to say to the families of the victims?

Broadnax: (stares at the camera for a moment) F*ck 'em. Straight up.

In a jailhouse interview with Fox news, nineteen-year-old James Broadnax confesses to killing Matt and Steven. (NOTE: Footage is uncensored; discretion is advised.) The unspeakable irony, as Mister Nygren learned at the funeral yesterday, was that Matt and Steven were only at the studio so late because they were putting the finishing touches on a song they'd recorded together... called "We All Die Before Our Time."

In their public statements, the grieving families have expressed pity towards Broadnax and his cousin (who was present but didn't pull the trigger). I'd like to say that pity was my first or even overwhelming second response, but... I'd be lying. I wanted justice. Not even the I-hope-you-get-life-without-parole kind of justice, I'm ashamed to admit. More of the blind-outrage variety that causes mobs of otherwise sane people to do unjust things in the name of justice. Realizing that carrying out that sort of thing would make me no less cold-blooded than the murderer himself, though, I had to start praying that God would show James Broadnax the kind of mercy that I wanted Him to show me.

Broadnax tells the interviewer that his life has been hell, and that he intends to die, whether at his own hand or the state's. "I don't want [a] life [sentence]," he says flatly. It bears mentioning, though,  that at the end of the video -- mere moments after the chilling retort quoted above -- the stone-cold-killer facade crumbles. Broadnax appears to be fighting back tears as he slams down the receiver, rises abruptly from his chair and exits the visitation booth.

Watching him, I am finally overcome with pity as I realize that he, too, died before his time...

Almost twelve years ago, outside the front door of the renovated house where our oddball singles group met, a teenager with twinkling eyes pulled me aside to talk after the crowd began to disperse. Having heard me lead the music that night, Matt wanted to talk to me about his own future in music. I confessed I didn't know much of anything about making a career of it -- I was a self-taught guitarist who liked to sing, but I wasn't pursuing a contract or anything -- but gladly obliged when he asked if he could sing for me. He had a marvelous voice, and I didn't mind telling him so... but it was the sound I heard behind his voice -- his conviction and hunger to do more with his music than his years would yet allow -- that told me he would be someone to watch.

Four years later I heard the sound again -- not in a song, but in a conversation between Matt and my husband about our new recording studio. Having been laid off from my telecom job with a severance package generous enough to allow it, we'd bought a Mac, a ProTools setup, some fundamental recording equipment and enough bright purple soundproofing foam to give Barney the dinosaur an inferiority complex. Matt was full of questions, stunned at how little it really took to create a start-up studio, and bore the unmistakable look of a man who was determined to make it happen for himself.

In 2006, we and that fateful day in our apartment were mentioned -- though not by name -- in a news article where Matt was being interviewed about the recording studio he'd recently opened. Sadly, it appeared again in the news yesterday when the story broke that he and Stephen Swan, his sound engineer and good friend, had been gunned down in front of that same studio.

I firmly believe that Matt, for all the struggles he may have had here, is now in the presence of the only One whose approval of his music or work ever mattered... and God bless him, those long struggles are over. He leaves behind a twenty-two-year-old widow, a son just a month younger than my own and a daughter who will be two this fall.

Your prayers for his family, the Swan family, and even especially for those responsible would be greatly appreciated.

Q: Do you know the difference between preparedness and paranoia?
A: "Prepared" is what you are. "Paranoid" is what other people are.

Last night, for the fourth or fifth time in the past month, a powerful storm front blew in from West Texas bringing tornadoes, damaging winds, flooding and hail with it. Like most of the ones we've seen this year, though, it seems we were barely brushed by the hem of its garment. What makes where I live such a meteorological sweet spot lately, I don't know. Fierce, angry storms come charging at us from all the way across the state, and no sooner do they cross I-35 than they turn into mildly senile grandparents: appearing to have forgotten why they came into North Dallas in the first place, they grumble to themselves for a bit and then leave to avoid embarrassment.

Though I'm glad the latest adventures have all had happy endings, I'm not so naive as to think we'll never get hit with the kind of weather that makes the news. (After all, "those people" whose homes and property get destroyed by storms have to live somewhere -- and "somewhere" usually isn't that far from here.) To that end, I'm pretty vigilant when it comes to inclement weather, especially at night when everyone else may be sleeping.

Maybe it's because big changes in atmospheric pressure wake me up long before a storm arrives, so I have nothing better to do than track its progress. Maybe it's a mom thing. Maybe it's because I'm still kicking myself for the day I ignored my instincts and learned the hard way that I should have honored them. In any case, when there's a storm coming, you can usually find me with sneakers on my feet, a lighter in my pocket, a cell phone nearby and an eye on a weather site (since we don't have TV).

No one has out-and-out called me paranoid for doing these things, but I've seen enough body language to know that sometimes I'm being humored rather than supported. It's the same look I got when someone offered to drive my two-year-old son somewhere and I declined because she didn't have a car seat. "It's not that far," she demurred. "But... you know," she continued, barely suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, "it's whatever you're more comfortable with."

I smiled. "Yup." 

When it comes to dangerous weather, I'm more comfortable with having my boys grumbling at me for getting them up when calamity misses the Abbey than with leaving them sleeping peacefully in their beds when it doesn't.

In any event, the weather's fine today, so now I can go back to stockpiling firearms.
(Hey, when the day comes, those damn zombies aren't going to shoot themselves.)
 

I admit it: I've started two other entries between the last one and now, saved them both as drafts in progress, and didn't want to wait until I felt witty enough to finish them before posting again. Having been notified by a couple folks who love me that my blog is the way they keep up with the adventure/comedy known as my life, I wanted to be sure I didn't leave them hanging. This won't be any great shakes, but it oughta get the job done. Here goes:

1) Little Man is [finally] going to sleep in his big boy bed on his own. He's been in it for more than a month (ever since he figured out how to launch himself out of his crib, the tricky little dickens) but until recently, Mister Nygren and I have been taking turns lying down beside him at night until he loses consciousness. Realizing that in a few short months we won't have that luxury, we decided it was time for him to learn to stay in bed just because we said so, and not because he was physically incapable of doing otherwise. Our early attempts were met with nearly an hour of crying and feigning owwies each night to get us to return to his room. After a couple weeks of sticking to our guns, though, it seems to have worked. So for five GLORIOUS days now, he has climbed into bed, said his prayers ("Tanks [something unintelligible] Daddy... tanks [something unintelligible] Baby... amen"), offered hugs and kisses and lay quietly until he's drifted off.
Much rejoicing, albeit slightly softer than daytime volume, was heard throughout the Abbey.

2) I can make my own sauerkraut. Hot damn.
I threw in some gold beets just because I'd seen them at the market and they looked interesting, and they're magical in sauerkraut. My cabbage looked happier just for having them in there. If you like sauerkraut and you've only had the heat-treated kind that comes in a can or jar, you have no earthly idea what you're missing.  Email me and I'll hook you up. I just started another batch tonight with apples in it...

3)At this stage of development, my little Sugar Bean has a strong heartbeat, lots of functioning organs, fingerprints, and... no midwife. The only one covered on my insurance won't take me because I'm trying for a VBAC, and the out-of-pocket cost of using one who isn't in-network may prove too great for us. (Ironically, that cost would still be about one-third the price of a hospital birth. Midwives, understandably, need their money before you deliver; a hospital, on the other hand, can just bill you... and bill you... and bill you.) I may just need to wait until my economic-stimulus money comes in from the gubmint to get what I'm looking for... or, I may just need to take this as a sign from God that I should make plans to deliver with an OB. Guess we'll see.

4) Last night was my final show with The Elder Statesmen in its current incarnation; Robert and Mickey (bass player and drummer, respectively) have taken other projects. Darius and Ron (keys and percussion) have been gracious enough not to vote me off the island yet -- maybe because I'm now not just the only female member, but the only pale one as well, and every otherwise-homogenous group needs a Token :) -- so I'm eager to discover what musical relationships and adventures lie ahead.

There's more, but... I'm tired. Much love -- and sweet dreams -- to all.

"If these things are to be believed, then my older daughter is going to grow up to be the leader of a street gang... and my younger one will be running the soup kitchen that feeds them all."
-- my mom, circa 1979, after reading our birth horoscopes to my aunt

I don't put much stock in daily horoscopes -- some days I envision a writer throwing darts at a wall full of Chinese cookie fortunes to discern that day's 'wisdom' -- but I can't deny that the season into which a person is born appears to be linked to some very distinct character and personality traits. Do with that what you will.

In any event, I'd never heard that prophecy of my mom's until I called to tell her I had [yet] another new housemate.

As mentioned in the previous post, I evidently now have a time-share rooster. Bockbock, as my son has named him, wandered into my yard looking unkempt and -- pardoning the pun -- a bit peckish. I wasn't sure what was best to feed him, but knowing they're foragers and omnivores, I figured I couldn't go too wrong with leftover grains and veggie scraps. He's also just discovered the little wrigglies in my compost. He must be pretty happy with the arrangement, because he's taken to sleeping on the top step outside my back door and crowing for breakfast around seven in the morning.

...which brings us to last night, when I was expecting it to freeze (though it turns out that cold front is moving in tonight instead). As my roommates and I sat talking in the living room, I started to worry about my feathered friend. "I wonder if he's actually got a warm place to sleep," I mused aloud. "I mean, I obviously can't bring him in the house -- he's still got his spurs. But I..."

At this the boys rolled their eyes, and everyone else in the room started chuckling. "Hey!" I cried defensively, "it isn't news to any of you that I've always had a soft spot in my heart for strays." Then I added with a grin, "... and before you give me any grief about it, you'd do well to remember it's the reason you're here."

Incidentally, my sister did indeed go on to become the leader of a gang -- her daughters are three of the toughest "boys in floral prints" you'll ever meet. As for my soup kitchen... well, more on that later. Right now, having constructed a makeshift coop for my new friend -- complete with removable heating pad -- I have to figure out a way to coax him into it tonight...